


Oláfsdrápa

by Razzaroo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical References, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: Norway, Denmark and an aftermath
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: Nordipalooza 2020





	Oláfsdrápa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nordipalooza 2020. Prompt was: "Norway. Denmark. Surrender. Medieval or 1600s."

_Which greater people-governor_

_has gained the northern end of_

_the world? The leader lasted_

_less long than he should have._

_-_ **Erfidrá** **pa Oláfs helgi, Sigvatr Þórðarson**

Norway feels it when his king dies.

The pain comes first: once in his knee and he buckles; once in his throat and his breath rasps, tasting of iron on his tongue; and once in his belly, thrusting through him and out of his back. His vision blurs and he almost expects to see blood when it clears again, soaking the grass and his hands and his clothes in bright red. For a handful of breaths, his ears ring with the sounds of battle, full of swords on swords and the shouts of men.

‘ _I should have been there,’_ he thinks, ‘ _then the king might not have fallen.’_

But it would have meant fighting his own, a wrenching thought even if they had chosen to rally with the Danes. What is left now is to see Denmark himself, face to face, and offer his last stand.

When the din in his ears dies down, he forces himself to his feet. He shakes but he can still stand, still walk, and his strength hasn’t left him yet. He retrieves his sword from where he keeps it beside his bed; he ignores his staff because there’s no place for magic here, not now. There’s some part of him that’s tempted to leave and seek Denmark out himself, meet the other man halfway, but he has no intention of making this easier for Denmark than he has to.

It doesn’t take Denmark long to reach him from Stiklestad. There’s blood clumped in his hair, clotting in the stubble on his chin. He’d been bearded the last time Norway had seen him, still a relatively young kingdom and bursting with pride. Now, he looks tired, worn by battle and his trek to find Norway. He falters, only slightly, when he sees Norway is armed.

“Come on, Norvegr,” he says, “Don’t do it like this.”

Norway sets his mouth, “How should I do it? Go back quietly?” He narrows his eyes, “Is that what _you_ would do?”

Denmark only rolls his eyes. He’s confident in his win already, despite his exhaustion, bolstered by his victories elsewhere. He draws his sword and Norway braces himself for impact.

The blows come quickly and Norway staggers back, his shield raised. He feels the force of the hits travel up his arm, vibrate down his spine, sing in his ribs. Denmark moves fast enough that Norway is on the defensive;Denmark’s always been bigger and used that to his advantage, even when they’d been so much younger. Norway’s sword rings, from blocks and the rare moment he moves on the offensive. There’s a screaming pain in his throat, his belly, his knee, echoes of his king’s death. It’s hard to move, hard to _breathe_ , and he slows--

His sword is knocked from his hand and Denmark’s shield makes contact with his jaw, sending him reeling. The thought that he mustn’t fall onto his back managed to break its way through the pain radiating through his jaw and the rattling in his head; he twists so that he falls onto his side, the impact with the ground winding him. Denmark’s sword point is at Norway’s neck.

“Thought you were meant to be the smart one,” Denmark says, “What did you think would happen?”

_I don’t know._ Norway can’t say it. Slim as his chances were, he could have won. He could have beaten Denmark at least, bought himself some time. There was always Sweden, where his queen is taking shelter; there is even Rus, with his child prince.

Denmark steps back to allow Norway to sit up. Norway wipes at his face and his hand came away red. His mouth thick with the taste of iron, his jaw throbbing. He spits red and hopes it won’t take long for him to heal.

“Slim chances are still chances.” he says. He bows his head, “But I’ll go back with you.”

He’s not too proud that he won’t acknowledge this for what it is: it’s surrender and submission, acknowledgement that he is beaten again, still caught under Knutr’s long shadow.

If there’s any hard feelings, Denmark doesn’t show them. He drops his sword, his shield, and helps Norway to his feet, steadying him. Norway breathes in the mixed smells of blood and sweat. It sticks in the back of his throat and stays there, like something solid. His jaw aches and he reaches up to touch it; it’s a miracle Denmark hadn’t broken it, or at least testament that Norway is still _Norway_ , and strong enough to take a blow that no human could or able to heal faster.

“I’m sorry,” Denmark says, and something twitches under Norway’s skin. That’s something he’s never heard before. Denmark gestures at his own jaw, “I don’t really like hittin’ people I don’t already hate.”

“Oh,” Norway said as he retrieved his sword and shield, “So if I was Sweden…?”

Denmark pulls a face and rolls his eyes, “I don’t _hate_ Sweden. I just don’t like dealin’ with him.” He looks at the sky and squints at the horizon, “Do you wanna go now…?”

He leaves the question open and Norway seizes his chance.

“Not yet.” He gestures to himself, to his bruises and the dirt on his clothes, the swipe of blood across his cheek, “Tomorrow. I want to wash; you owe me that much at least.”

Denmark, undoubtedly, knows what he’s doing. Still, he nods and doesn’t argue; Norway considers it a victory, even in the smallest scheme of things.

“Tomorrow then,” Denmark says.

Norway turns from him, wanting to look away from all that blood. Was some of it his king’s? Despite how much they’d pushed and pulled each other over the years, he still couldn’t be comfortable with the thought of _Denmark_ being the one to land that final blow. They’d been brothers once; he didn’t want to sour the possibility of them being brothers again one day.

“This won’t last, you know,” he says, sinking down into the grass, tired to the bone, “Kings die. Their sons can be weak. Dynasties crumble.” He glances over his shoulder, “Just look at England.”

“It’s not _my_ choice. You know that.”

“Who next? Sweden? Iceland?” Norway balls one hand into a fist against the grass, “Good luck with those two.”

“Sweden’s impossible,” Denmark says. Norway hears the sound of a sword being thrust into the earth but Denmark makes no move to join him, “I already said I don’t wanna deal with him. And Iceland is too far.”

The two of them fall silent for a moment, apart from the sound of Denmark kicking the ground as he waited for Norway to move, before Denmark speaks again.

“You can have a new start, you know,” he says, “With a new name. What will you pick?”

Norway looks out over the fjord and he smiles, the first time in days. A name…now that _is_ something he has control over and he intends to hold onto it, make sure it means something.

“Oláfr.”

**Author's Note:**

> So it's been a while. My last Hetalia fic finished when I was starting university as an undergrad and now I have only a few months left of my postgrad course.
> 
> Wow.
> 
> Anyway, some historical notes:
> 
> \- The Norwegian king being referenced here is Olaf II, who would later become St. Olaf. He was killed at the battle of Stiklestad in 1030 fighting against Norwegian magnates allied with Danish forces. The title comes from a poem about his lawmaking by Sigvatr Þórðarson.  
> \- The Danish king is Knutr, maybe better known by the spelling Cnut. He was king of Denmark, England and Norway.  
> \- The queen in Sweden is Astrid, St. Olaf's wife and daughter of King Olof of Sweden. The prince in Rus is Magnus, Olaf's illegitimate son who would later be known as Magnus the Good. He was fostered in Rus when his family was forced out of Norway in the 1020s.   
> \- The quote at the start is from Alison Finlay's translation of Heimskringla, a collection of kings' sagas with skaldic verse incorporated into the prose. I briefly considered doing my own translation of the stanza but I don't dislike myself that much yet ;)


End file.
